


if she weren't writing in blood

by something_pithy



Series: tales of the nightcastle [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Luke Cage (TV), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8609728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/something_pithy/pseuds/something_pithy
Summary: “The argument about Frank’s recklessness and Claire wondering if she’s nothing but a nurse to him.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Не будь она той, что пишет кровью](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11590332) by [fandom_Hells_Kitchen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_Hells_Kitchen/pseuds/fandom_Hells_Kitchen), [Xetta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xetta/pseuds/Xetta)



> Title from "Grow Up and Blow Away" by Metric. 
> 
> So I got this prompt from the really lovely @mitts-and-sticks (on tumblr), who now has me hooked on yet another rare pair that almost nobody is writing, Frank Castle and Claire Temple (because I only like life when it’s hard, apparently LOL).
> 
> This is the first in my new series creatively entitled "tales of the nightcastle," which will consist of -- you guessed it, tales of the Night Nurse (Claire Temple) and the Punisher (Frank Castle). I'm really into this pairing, so I imagine there'll be a few in this series.
> 
> So I wrote this thing that was supposed to have been a drabble for this prompt. I hope you enjoy it!

It had taken an hour and a half to dig the bullet out of his shoulder – a wound which, despite the conventional wisdom of movie magic, could easily have killed him had it nicked the right artery. She’d done this with steady hands and an even pulse that had come through years of training and practice and working in environments where if you didn’t learn to shut out stimuli like noise and disruptions and emotions, someone would bleed out.  


That someone would not be Frank Castle.

The bullet was out, though; the wound, thankfully, hadn’t gone that deep. As far as bullet wounds went, she’d seen worse. Now she was getting ready to suture, and her hands didn’t have to be quite as steady. The tremor was barely noticeable, which meant of course he noticed it.

“You all right, Night Nurse?” he asked, gruff, casting a sidelong glance at her as she focused on threading the curved needle. 

“Fine.” It was curt – too curt. But fuck it. “I’m not the one with the hole in my shoulder.” 

He raised a brow. “You got somethin’ you wanna say, Nurse Temple?”  
  
“Got a couple things I wanna say, Castle, but they can wait until I’m done stitching your dumb ass up.” 

He watched her as she closed her eyes and took a breath. When she opened them, she exhaled, then turned to him, leaning in to start the stitching. 

“If you’ve got somethin’ to say, Temple, you oughta just say it,” he said as though she weren’t sliding a needle through his torn flesh.

“Why should I say anything?” she asked as she expertly began sewing up his wound, as though she’d never hesitated to begin with. “I’m just the nurse, right?”

There was a hint of bitterness to her tone that she couldn’t quite suppress. 

He looked at her sidelong. 

“Is this some kinda read between the lines thing I’m supposed to be picking up on— _fuck_!” 

She’d pulled the suture through more quickly than she’d needed to, and a bit more tightly, too. Her lips were thin, her jaw tight, and she took a breath.  
  
“Sorry,” she muttered. “Sorry.” 

“You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on before you put another hole in me with that needle?” he asked. 

She looked at him then, took another breath, exhaling slowly.

“No,” she said. “It can wait.”

But when she moved to get started on stitching him again, he grasped her wrist.

“Temple.” His voice was gravelly, his gaze pinned on her, and she looked back at him before she sighed and shook her head.  
  
“You’re just too fucking reckless, Frank,” she said, pulling her wrist free and getting back to his shoulder. “You jump in front of bullets, get into monumentally stupid situations, and show up here at least once a week fucked up beyond what anybody should find acceptable.”

Though her eyes were on her work now, his had never left her. 

“I know what I’m doing. I’m good at this.”

“Not good enough not to get shot, apparently,” she muttered, sliding the needle into his skin.  

“If it were easy, everybody would do it,” he said, seemingly unaffected.

“Yeah, well, that doesn’t explain why it has to be you,” she said, pulling the needle through again, more steadily this time.

“Who else?” he asked in a rumble. “Who the fuck else is going to clean this shit up, make sure these animals aren’t on the streets? Keep people safe?” 

“I don’t know, Frank, maybe _the cops_?” 

He snorted. 

“You don’t even fuckin’ believe that,” he said. 

“What do you know about what I believe?” she asked him, her gaze turning to him as she tied off the suture. “You come in here twice a week to get wrapped up, sewn up, bandaged up, maybe get a quick fuck if you’re in good enough shape for it, and then you fuck right off again. I’m surprised you even know my name!” 

He was watching her again. Then he said in a low rumble,

“I know your name.”

“Yeah, no shit,” she said as she snapped off the latex gloves. “You gotta know which burner to call when you need a splint. I’m just a fucking repair service to you.”  
  
He stood then, taking her wrist again – but this time, he stroked his thumb over her pulse point. He was close – so close that she had to tip her head back to glare at him, so she turned her face away, balling up the gloves. His moments of gentleness were always surprising – no less so now, when the brush of his fingers tipped her chin to that she was looking up at him, her jaw still set, mutinous.

“That what you think? That you’re just the Night Nurse to me?” he asked, his tone cool.

“Should I _not_ think that?” she asked, incredulous. “You get shot up like you’ve got nothing to live for, ready to throw your life away for what? For vengeance? For justice? For ghosts?”

His jaw went tight now, his hand dropping away from her. 

“You don’t wanna go here, Temple,” he growled.

“Oh, I _don’t_?” she said, canting her head, not giving an inch. “Are we treading dangerously close into _feelings_? Into talking about the shit that doesn’t just serve a strict practical function in your life?”

“You’re on the verge of a tantrum right now,” he said, his voice low, heavy with warning. “Take it back a notch.”

Her eyes widened.

“Are you. Fucking. _Kidding me_ right now?” she said, her voice rising. “Are you fucking telling me to _calm down_?” 

“I am telling you that you’re fucking pissed off, and you’re looking for a way to make me as pissed off, and it’s starting to fucking work, so fucking take a minute to think about what the fuck you’re saying to me.” 

“I am not _pissed off_!” she was close to shouting now. “I am fucking _scared_ and fucking _sick_ with worry just about every goddamn night about your fucking careless, senseless ass, and I’m fucking _tired_ of caring _so fucking much_ about you when you give not one shit about me other than how quick I can stitch you or twist on your dick!”

“Taken aback” wasn’t a look that Frank Castle wore often or well – for those who didn’t know him, it would probably be hard to distinguish from most of his other expressions. His eyes were only slightly wider, his brow slightly raised, and the set of his jaw a little less tight.    
  
Her chest was heaving, her pupils dilated, and her fists clenched. After a moment of silence, she spun on her heel to start packing up her kit. 

“Claire,” he said. 

“Oh, _now_ you wanna say my name?” she said, shoving gauze packets back into the bag. She jumped when he put his hand over hers, when she realized his solid presence was behind her. 

“You’re not just a nurse,” he said, his lips close to her ear, breath feathering against her skin. She turned around then, and they were face to face. “You’re not just a fuck.”

She wet her lips, her jaw still tight, and listened. 

“It’s not just for them,” he said, then motioned to the bullet wound, which she hadn’t even bandaged yet. “This – it’s not just vengeance. Not just justice. Not just them.”

She wet her lips, her breath caught, her pulse too quick.

“You fix what’s broken – that’s what you do,” he continued. “That’s how you make it better, that’s how you help. I do that, too, in a different way – but I’m also trying to keep it from getting broken to begin with.”  
  
He took a breath, looking at her; his hand rose to her cheek, thumb stroking over her cheekbone.

“And if you don’t realize that you’re a part of that, well, you’re just not as smart as I thought.”

Her eyes widened, and she punched him in is unwounded shoulder. Hard.

He only winced slightly, a half-grin playing at his lips.

“It’s OK, ’cause you’re still hot.”  
  
Another punch. Another wince. Another grin. He leaned in then, and she leaned up to meet him, but nipped his lip instead of kissing him.

“Fucking _pendejo_ ,” she muttered against his lips.

“That means like, super hot white guy, right?” 

A burst of laughter spilled from her lips to his.

“So fuckin’ stupid,” she said before she brought him in for a real kiss this time.  

**Author's Note:**

> I have other works that haven't made it here (yet?) on my tumblr -- something-pithy! Come visit!


End file.
